In the Heat of the Moment

Stagnant summer air seeped in through the sliding screen door that led off to the patio. There was no breeze to serve as relief, as per usual for a mid-August evening in this small Midwestern town. It wouldn't have been so intolerable if the air conditioner hadn't busted. Sometime during the afternoon, the clanking machine had shuttered still, bringing a silence that baked.

The high temperature caused the evening meal to not be as enjoyable as usual. Rear-ends stuck sickly to the hardwood of the chairs, making squelching noises with every movement. Little feet dangled above the floor next to the adult legs that were flushed with heat. My dark hair wasn't long enough to pull back and it was flattened against my head in sweaty strands. But Melissa's, bright and curly, was pulled back in a manner that was positively envious. She flipped her ponytail at every opportunity, drawing attention to the grass stains on the sleeves of her shirt from somersaulting through the open field of the school yard across the street.

I frowned as I stabbed unhappily at the meal before me. Somersaulting was a tricky maneuver for a six-year-old who had never quite gained full control over her limbs. I'd try to mirror my sister's lithe tumbles through the dry grass, but instead of tight rolls, I usually ended up veering to the side as my legs, not quite tucked against my chest, pulled me over with a loud thump. I spent most of my afternoon flat on my back, staring up at the sky that was such a bright blue it was almost white. While Melissa bore green badges of accomplishment on her sleeves, all I had were chigger bites all over my calves.

Dinner progressed in a moody silence that hung as heavy as the air. The house was small, the dining room doubly so as a large table – far too large for four people – took up the majority of the area. Absorbing wayward pieces of corn casserole was a thick brown carpet that clashed horribly with the walls covered in a peach paint that was all too tell-tale of the era. Beneath my feet, the remains of evening paper laid strewed, bearing the headlines of the drought that had just started to take over the state, a drought that wouldn't leave and would haunt the farmer heritage that my father carried. There were lines on his face that had appeared that night as he read the news, lines that would deepen to creases as the years progressed. But tonight, they vanished. It would be quite some time and two teenage daughters later until the lines became permanent.

Beneath the table, Melissa started poking me with her toes. Over and over against my shin until I finally pierced her with a glare that I reserved especially for her. I drew my brows in as I pursed my lips together and scrunched my nose, all together pulling off the look of someone who had smelled something rather unpleasant.

"Melissa, how many times do I have to tell you not to touch your sister?" My mother's voice was exasperated. We weren't the only ones who had to return to school the next day. She already had the frazzled look about her at the thought of once again teaching a room full of twenty six-year-olds.

"Tattle," my sister mouthed to me. Dropping my eyes back to my plate, I couldn't help but feel ashamed. I was always the one who told, and I didn't even take the time to consider the fact that I hadn't said anything to my parents, my mother had merely picked up on my blatant nonverbal cues. It was her one great talent.

For a solid five minutes, there was peace. Outside the door there was only silence. It was too hot still for the birds, though as the sun set they would burst to life with song once again in the maple tree in the backyard. The roads were quiet as it would require too much energy get into a car and drive through the thick air. There wasn't even the sound of children playing in the yards. It was as though the whole neighborhood was paying its respects to this the dying day of summer – the last twelve hours before the first day of school.

The poking resumed. Again and again, until my face turned red, but I was determined to handle it myself. Thinking back on this moment, it is hard to believe that years from now I would be considered the intelligent one of the pair of us. Book smarts I had, but from the day she was born, Melissa had always been the one with common sense. It never occurred to me to retaliate under the table where my parents couldn't see. Instead, without any warning, I reached out and smacked my sister across the face, the sweat on her cheeks making the action all the more poignant.

"Meg!" my mother shrieked. Believing that I would still somehow pull it off, I tried my best to look like the innocent victim and pointed at my sister. For a moment, there was no sound but my sister's forced tears cutting through the heavy summer air. And through the inordinate amount of noise she made, my father started to chuckle, permeating the tension like a cool breeze.